To say award-winning podcaster and Big Brother alum Yolanda Mukondeleli beats her own drum is to slightly undersell the bright, self-propelling energy that demands you take notice of her.
It’s instantly apparent as we sit down at the original Norwood home of Thava, the Indian restaurant that is expanding across multiple locations, that she is someone who learnt early and repeatedly to generate her own momentum.
As the wonderful Kerala-inflected food arrives in generous waves — pani puri, tandoori chicken and bowls of curry — Yolanda leans into the abundance, delighted.
“I love this kind of food,” she says. “I like discovering things I don’t know, because it reminds me that there’s always more. Even with life, you think you’ve seen everything, and then something new comes.”
Discovery, it turns out, is the through-line of her story. She was born in Phalaborwa near the border of the Kruger National Park. “I grew up under cars. My dad was a mechanic, so my playground was engines, oil, paint. I learnt very early that if something breaks, you fix it. You don’t sit and cry about it.”
It was not a childhood that translated easily into social belonging. ”I didn’t fit anywhere,” she says. “Girls didn’t understand me because I wasn’t soft in the way they expected. Boys didn’t understand me because I was a girl in their space. Even parents didn’t understand me. I was just different.”
I thought something was wrong, something spiritual even. I prayed for it to go away. I wore scarves, makeup, I controlled what people could see. And when you’re hiding something, you live in fear
— Yolanda Mukondeleli
She fought back, sometimes literally. “If you bullied me, I fought. I didn’t always win but I was never going to sit quietly and accept something that didn’t feel right.”
The one constant was her father, who was also her primary caregiver. “He allowed me to be exactly who I was. There was no ‘why are you like this?’ with him. So even if the world didn’t get me, home was always safe.”
When he died, while she was in grade 11, that safety disappeared. “That’s when everything changed. I had to exist in a world where no-one really understood me. I had to learn how to move, how to adapt, how to survive.”
The pani puri arrives, crisp shells filled and eaten in one exhilarating bite. Yolanda laughs as we attempt it. “This is like life,” she says. “You don’t always know what you’re doing. You just try, and you figure it out as you go.”
Johannesburg tested her. “I came here thinking I’m going to study and everything will be fine. Then you realise there’s rent, there’s food, there’s life. Survival comes first.”
She queued for days trying to register for university, only to discover she hadn’t applied for funding. “That was my first real lesson. No-one is coming to fix things for you. You have to think and act.”
So she worked — selling insurance, handing out flyers, chasing leads. “I was loud, I was confident and I wasn’t afraid to approach people. Energy is everything. If you believe what you’re saying, people feel it.”
Retail followed, and with it proximity to image and aspiration. It was here that her body began to change. “I saw a white patch on my skin, and I didn’t understand it. I thought something was wrong, something spiritual even. I prayed for it to go away.”
The patches spread. She hid them. “I wore scarves, makeup, I controlled what people could see. And when you’re hiding something, you live in fear.”
You cannot control what people say. But you can control what it means to you
— Yolanda Mukondeleli
Then she discovered Canadian model Winnie Harlow, a prominent voice for people with vitiligo. “When I saw her, everything shifted, I realised this is not something that has to end me. It could be something powerful.”
Still, the first moment of visibility was challenging. “I went to work without covering it and everyone stared. I panicked and hid it again. But I had already seen what was possible, so I knew I wouldn’t stay there forever.”
A modelling competition became the turning point. “I decided I was ready before anyone else told me I was,” she says. “I practised every day. I committed.”
She won. Then lockdown hit. “Everything stopped,” she says. “But life doesn’t move in a straight line. You keep going.” More dishes arrive — fragrant curries, soft breads, prawns in sauce — the table now a riot of colour and flavour. There is a generosity to Thava that mirrors Yolanda herself: expressive, abundant, unafraid.
She returned to work, built side hustles, and eventually signed with an agency. Campaigns followed, including one for BMW that placed her image across billboards nationwide. After television, she made a deliberate decision. “I didn’t want to build something controlled by someone else,” she says. “I wanted something that belongs to me.”
Her podcast was born. “It’s about energy and joy,” she says. “If you’re tired or stressed, you come there and you feel lighter. That’s the space I wanted to create.”
Then came the message from US rapper Rick Ross. “He messaged me on Christmas Day. It felt like a gift. And I knew I had to make it happen.”
She did, becoming one of the only African podcasters to interview him. “At the time, I didn’t realise how big it was,” she says. “I was just focused on doing it.”
Her perspective on her vitiligo is equally forthright. “You cannot control what people say. But you can control what it means to you.”
She smiles. “If someone calls me a cow, I think cows are valuable. So what are you really saying? You have to take things and turn them into power.”
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